


Neverland

by PBJ32557



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Pirates, Alternative Universe - Gay Pirates (song), Bucky is Hook, Dubious Consent, Fantasy, M/M, Minor Captain Hook/Peter Pan, Neverland, Peter Pan - Freeform, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve is Peter Pan, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, captain James hook - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9499550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJ32557/pseuds/PBJ32557
Summary: "Listen, Sam, Bucky isn't my boyfriend, he just-""Who the hell is Bucky, now?" Sam stepped forward, the concern clear on his face was concerning in itself. "Another pirate?"After a long pause Steve had to answer. "James.""James? As in, Captain James? Hook?" A pathetic nod. "You fucking idiot, Steve, do you have any idea-""What happened, Stevie? I thought our little date was great. You didn't climb out any back windows and I didn't lose any other limbs so I thought it went pretty damn well." Sam startled as Bucky appeared from behind the strewn open door, tutting at Steve before throwing his arm around his shoulders casually, smiling at Sam as he gaped in accusatory shock."Now really isn't the time, Bucky." Steve pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger but nonetheless slumping into the Pirate's side."It never is with you Lost, is it?" He smirked with a bone-deep affection as he gently kissed Steve's temple, turning back to his friend who quite frankly resembled a gutted fish.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve was sure that this was the end.

There was no point in trying to fight against the Hydra located at the very edge of Cannibal Cove. The Lost knew better than to wander past the Bay and he knew better than most of the Lost.  
He could feel the sand in his eyelashes and the grains that had stuck to his cheeks with the tears tracked down them in salty trails, but there was the sun on his face, drying the blood that was seemingly getting warmer and thicker on the skin around his mouth and jaw from where he'd been struck, and there was light caught in his eyelashes as well as he blinked away at the dirt he'd rubbed into his skin when screaming into the ground in agony, and he thought that even death could find a way to be beautiful in its own sickening way. 

There was a godawful screech beside him and while Steve was debating whether or not it had come from his left or right, he heard it hiss, steadily approaching. He just hoped none of his friends - his family - would find him like this and be eaten too because he was too fucking stupid.

"Jesus," He heard a voice, relief washing over him with the last of the adrenaline rushing in his veins, glad that it wasn't familiar. "It's a fucking Lost." It most definitely wasn't an angel- he was pretty damn sure at this point, drugged on pain and adrenaline or not.  
So maybe he wasn't dying- or as close to death as he had thought. Sam had always told him he had a flair for the dramatic. He struggled to wheeze a breath past what felt like a stone in his throat as he writhed, struggling to turn onto all fours and crawl away from the unfamiliar voices and the smell of blood.

"You take the kid, I got the Hydra." He heard one of the voices gradually come closer, a couple of feet away at most.  
His dust was gone, he was sure: he had no hope of escaping.  
A pair of black boots came into his eye-line and he whimpered, peripheral vision catching a blurry glimpse of a red jacket and dark hair.  
"Pirate." He croaked in a breath, unable to get to his hands and knees and so, vulnerable on his side. 

"Doesn't look like you've got many options left." The pirate chuckled, but Steve could've sworn he could hear a grimace in his voice.  
The sound of a blade scraping against the metal of a sheathe had Steve flinching but nonetheless baring his throat like he'd told himself to do all those times before, brave in the face of death and accepting his defeat with whatever dignity he could scrape together. 

"I'm not gonna kill you." The pirate sounded almost guilty, shameful even. Steve must've been high on whatever was thrumming through his body. "But this might hurt." Before Steve could even register anything else, eyelids fluttering-

Something hard and metal, that felt oddly like fingers, prodded at his chest and before Steve could protest, what he imagined was the Pirate's hand also began pushing down, scaling his warm fingers across the expanse of pale skin, bloody and torn in places.  
Steve's breath left him in a rush of air as though the Pirate had struck him and he let out an ungodly wail.

~

Bucky winced, teeth working over his bottom lip until it reddened with the blood rushing beneath his skin. The boy had broken his ribs, he was sure; he'd done it himself when he was younger, barely a year into piracy. He vividly remembered the sharp pain of the break and the ache in the weeks of healing. 

It was an understatement to say that the boy was small; his skinny legs were splayed on the ground, crumpled from falling and Bucky could only imagine the amount of pain he was in. His arms were scratched to all Hell, bleeding into the sand and he worried that an infection could take hold.  
Bucky pulled off his jacket, tugged his shirt over his head and ripped it into long strips, the sleeves already wet at the cuffs with blood. Binding the worst of the gashes he looked over to Natasha, her red hair a beacon like fire.  
"Nat, we need to go!" He yelled over the screeching. "Now!" Slipping his jacket back on - there was a reason he'd chosen red as a pirate - he noted dully that his hands were streaked a brilliant vermillion with the Lost's blood.

"Come on then!" Natasha shouted back, swiftly dodging a heavy strike from a spiked tail twice the size of her but still managing to catch the sight of Bucky hoisting the boy into his arms carefully. "If you wanted a trophy you could've just- fuck, we need to get out of here! Leave him!"

Bucky looked down at the Lost, one of many kinds he'd been raised to seek out and kill, and couldn't find it within himself to drop him. The boy shifted, muttering and whimpering.  
"I can see Angels." He breathed, blue eyes flickering open before rolling back in his skull.  
Bucky could've sworn that in that moment, he too had seen one - in his arms, drenched with sweat and bloodied as he was.


	2. You Waste All Your Time Faking All Your Smiles

Steve could’ve sworn there was something trying to burrow into his skull. Groaning, he turned his face deeper into the blankets, silk practically kissing the graze across his cheekbone that stung like Hell. His eyes fluttered open despairingly, realising that he was not in a familiar bed. Looking around the room, he was surprised. He hadn’t known what he’d honestly expected; possibly more torture devices and chains – not white walls and a regal armchair facing the four-poster bed he was ridiculously unenthusiastic to leave, whether or not he didn’t know where he was and had probably been kidnapped. Not that he was complaining. Yet.

However, after the realisation that he only wore his boxers forced him to sit upright in a more appropriate panic. He recognised the familiar green material hung over the armchair, burgundy velvet and inviting enough that Steve had to remind himself that he was panicking, or supposed to be. Sam was always on his back about his lack of self-preservation. When he reached for the tunic, his fingers came away stained vibrant. He had no time to deliberate whether it was worth putting back on when footsteps, heavy and horrifying sounded from outside the door. Steve dashed back to the bed, wincing and looking to his side in confusion to find his side bleeding from underneath bandages. His head was still spinning and shock finally seemed to be setting in. The door hinges screamed and Steve scrambled under the bed, holding an unsteady breath in anticipation.   
“Shit.” The voice was deep and sent frightened goosebumps littered across Steve’s skin. “Shit-fuck.” The footsteps receded and Steve hesitated for a heartbeat before yanking the sheets from the bed, pulling it around himself and barrelling out the door. 

The hallway was narrow and lined with lit gas lamps illuminating the wooden panels of the walls and floor. Doors led out to what Steve assumed would be similar overly-embellished rooms and, hopefully, an exit. Before he could decide on a door to try, he stumbled head-first into another body. An intimidating woman with hair like flames and eyes equally as intense looked down at him, eyebrow quirking up in what seemed to be amusement. Steve mumbled an apology almost certainly out of habit and bolted around the woman into the room she had just left. Luckily the room seemed to be empty and Steve shut it hastily, locking it in place with the iron deadbolt he was shamefully almost-too short to reach.   
“Nat?” He then heard from directly behind the door. “What’s going on? Wade’s losing his shit and won’t tell me what the fuck’s wrong?”

“Your little trophy-”

“I already told you, Nat, I don’t-”

“Just ran past me and locked himself in there.” There was a suspenseful moment of silence; one he could imagine was filled with a glance he couldn’t see. 

“Isn’t that-?”

“Loki’s room? Mm hmm. Hope you enjoyed your little chew-toy while he lasted. Thor’s expecting us within the week, by the way. Loki’ll show you the letter.” Steve could hear the woman, Nat, walking away and he released a breath that felt too much like lead. 

Steve couldn’t help but slide down the door and relax a little, exhausted and awfully aware of the throbbing in his head; the thumping pulse in his side. Movement from across the room caught his eye however; shifting, he craned his neck to try and look in curiosity, the pain redoubled and he curled inward, knees brought up to his chest and hissing through grit teeth. A broken whimper escaped him, silent in comparison to the deafening roar of the blood rushing in his ears. The shadow that passed over him, blocking the dim light of the gas lamp barely registered and cold hands gripped him at the shoulders, sitting him up by the wall before unlocking the door. 

The next thing he was aware of was the man crouching down before him, apologetic eyes clear and concerned. “You okay, kid?”

“M’not a kid.” Steve murmured into the sheets, feeling much colder than he had a minute ago.

“Sure thing, kid.” Steve would have rolled his eyes if not for the arms he found encircling him, hoisting him up. “C’mon.” Steve couldn’t find it within himself to try and push away, feeling much weaker, smaller. “Can you cook up something for pain? And tell Bruce to come find me-...”

~

Steve could remember his mother. It was a blessing that not many of the Lost could relate to with the memories they had left- empty. Sam had often recalled his father’s jacket at the rich smell of leather; Pietro and Wanda knew that they and their parents had been in an accident – remembered the walls crumbling around them all too vividly, yet not enough of the people so devoted to their children; Steve was sure that Peter had once mentioned a crash that had killed his parents when he was very young but knew that he’d had an aunt he’d loved so much. Steve thought of it as almost a blessing in itself that they couldn’t miss someone they couldn’t remember. 

Steve could remember his mother – he missed her profoundly: her kind eyes, blue and yet so warm when she looked at Steve, hopeful; her gentle hands that had shook, as if frail when stroked through his hair in comfort; her tears when Steve had caught the flu again in 1934 and the doctor had told her not to expect a miracle; the prayer she had whispered into his hair when she had thought Steve couldn’t hear her. He was almost glad he couldn’t remember the words she’d sobbed out. She had been deeply catholic and unlike Steve, had a thick Irish accent that had been broken with a Brooklyn lilt every few words or so. Steve wondered if she was still as committed to her faith, that it hopefully still provided her comfort. And while her name too often slipped him, he was sure he was Steven Grant Rogers – son of Sarah- Sally- Sam?

The next thing Steve was acutely aware of was the body sitting beside the bed, red jacket and dark hair all too familiar. The armchair had been dragged across the room to the bedside and Steve sat upright in a light-headed panic. The man jolted and pushed Steve back down upon hearing his whimper, clutching his head pitifully all whilst still trying to get up. He hadn’t realised the pirate had started talking.

“-hit your head real hard, kid. ‘Need to rest for a few days. Bruce said you probably got a concussion.” Bruce?

“‘Need to get back.” He mumbled, eyes closing with a wince at the light bleeding into the room.

“‘ _Back_ ’? Back where? You were a second away from getting your ass eaten by a Hydra and you want to go back?”

“Home.” Was all Steve could groggily murmur in return.

There was a pause where Steve could imagine the pirate deliberating on that thought before he heard him stand. “Can you swim?” Steve squinted past the brightness streaming in through the window, confused. “‘Cause we’re about a day’s way from the Island by now.” Steve watched irately as the pirate yanked open a drawer of the dresser sitting affront the window to pull out a glass bottle and lean against the wall with a smirk on his face. 

Pouring himself a drink, the pirate looked back to Steve as if to check he was still sat there squinting, pink in the face with anger and hands up against his temples in an attempt to soothe the rushing in his ears.

“You kidnapped me?” He spat through grit teeth. 

He was ridiculously and hilariously unlikely to be able cause harm to a _fly_ , let alone escape in his condition but that didn’t mean he’d be cowering in the corner for however long the pirate decided he was useful for whatever reason he so chose. Steve was known to be more bone-headed than that, even when it didn’t work to do him any favours. _Especially_ when it didn’t work to do him any favours.

“I prefer to use the term ‘rescued’. You’d’ve been that Hydra’s personal toothpick had it not been for yours truly.” Steve noted with a roll of his eyes that he looked somewhat proud. 

“Do you want me to say thank you?” He snapped, fiercely defiant.

“While it might be nice to be grateful,” An almost-glare at Steve. “I’m sure we’ve got much better ways for you to show your gratitude.” Steve eyed the pirate warily in obvious question and suspicion. “But for now, it’s chow time – considering how bad you wanna get up, let’s get moving.” He threw an over-sized shirt onto the bed that had been hanging over the armchair. “Don’t think I’ve got anything that’d fit you.”

As Steve reluctantly pulled it over his head and stood, the pirate asked, “What’s your name?” The shirt thankfully (while also shamefully) grazed the top of his knees, covering him but nevertheless making him feel like a child. 

With a tentative glance at the pirate, he responded uncertainly. “Steve.” He nodded as if the name was worth considering.  
The pirate then proceeded to open the door and leave. Steve wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful for that.   
After a moment of hesitation, the growling of his stomach too loud to ignore, he followed after the pirate unsurely with a slight limp. He quickened his pace despite the pain in his leg and the tenderness of his ribs in order to catch up after the thought of being found by other pirates alone entered his head. They continued down the narrow corridor, a rock of movement making Steve stumble into the pirate’s side. “Careful.” 

“What the fuck?” Steve gripped the pirate’s coat in fear of falling. 

“‘Just hitting a few waves, s’all. Don’t worry.”

Realisation hit Steve like a brick. Or like a Hydra’s tail to the face. “We’re on a _boat_?” It all made sense now. _‘Can you swim?’ – ‘A day’s way from the Island by now’._

“‘Thought you’d be quicker than this.” He chuckled. “You’re the one who pointed out I was a _pirate_ \- what d’you think pirates live in?”

“Shit.” Steve breathed, trying to reign in the familiar tightening of his lungs. “ _Fuck_.”

“C’mon.” The pirate smiled, drawing an arm around Steve and pulling him along until they reached a room with a large wooden table and benches centred in the midst of nets pinned up on the walls holding tins, cans, cups, bottles and other things wrapped up in cloth.   
Other than that, there were around seven other pirates gathered around the table, holding up metal tankers in a toast and all looking very much like they could skin Steve without a moment’s hesitation. He froze in the doorway and watched as the pirate stood in front of him, cheering along with the rest of the men – and woman, the frightening one Steve had run into with the fiery red hair – and drawing their attention.

“Captain, we were just celebrating the news!” One called out with a grin – Steve noticed the deep scars running across his face with a shocked and bewilderingly sympathetic double-take. “We should arrive at the Coast within the week, according to Loki.” The pirate then went on to nudge the dark-haired man beside him with a great smile and disfigured elbow. The man, who Steve assumed must be Loki, looked genuinely murderous upon glowering at him although the enthusiastic (and evidently as lacking in the self-preservation department as Steve, if not more so) pirate was clearly not affected by the unnerving glare. 

It was only then that it really registered what the pirate had said. _Captain?_

“Who’s your little friend, Buck?” One of the others asked, leaning to look around the pirate – Captain? ‘Buck’? – with a smirk. 

“Shut up, Tony.” The Captain moved aside to put a hand between Steve’s shoulder blades, pushing him forward slightly, however reluctant Steve was. “This is Steve.” His hand happened to press against a particularly aching bruise, causing Steve to try and shift away with a hiss.

“Hey there.” The Captain pushed him toward the scarred man that was smiling almost benevolently at Steve, talking as if to a cornered and frightened animal. Steve couldn’t deny there were similarities there. “Come sit here.” Steve was led by the man’s hand to sit between him and, terrifyingly enough, Loki. 

“Be nice, Wade.” A pirate opposite Steve warned with a smile. 

“Fuck off, Clint.” Steve almost jumped into Loki’s lap when Wade plucked a knife from the sheathe at his hip, looking as if he were preparing to launch it across the table. 

Upon hearing the aggravated grunt, Steve scrambled back and practically hugged Wade’s side, trying desperately to put space between him and Loki. Wade laughed before leaning down to whisper loudly in Steve’s ear, “Don’t worry, he’s a pussy cat really.” 

“Watch it, Wade, or your next meal might be your own fist, you repulsive quim.” Loki snarled. 

Steve looked to the Captain almost pleadingly, stuck between a man whose thigh was thicker than Steve in general and Loki who sent chills down his spine in terror. “Wade, Loki, enough. Shut the fuck up before I throw you both overboard.” The desperately grateful expression on his face clearly must have showed as Tony, if Steve recalled correctly, smirked through a sip of something probably alcoholic. 

Steve struggled to draw in his next breath, lungs constricting against his will. “Hey, kid,” The pirate Wade had told to fuck off, Clint, gestured with a concerned expression to the tankard sitting on the table before Steve. “We’re not gonna bite.”

“Not all of us anyway.” Tony muttered with a curl of his lip unsuccessfully hidden around a bite of bread. 

Steve blinked, painfully aware of the ragged gasp of his breath and reached for the mug of beer anxiously. After draining it in one long pull, the pirates quietened.

“So, Bucky,” Another pirate broke the silence with a malicious smile. “Who gets first at him?” Wade stiffened beside him as Clint glared down the table, Steve also becoming deathly still, eyes wide.

“Would you stop thinking with your fucking dick, Brock?”

“Shut the fuck up, man.”

“Why are you such a prick?”

The Captain, ‘ _Bucky_ ’, set his jaw, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “I can assure you that nobody is ‘ _getting at him_ ’, and if it were anyone, it’d be me, so watch your fucking mouth and remember your place.” Steve looked down at his hands clasped in his lap, nails digging into his milky skin and creating pink little crescent moons along his knuckles. 

~

After a bowl of broth and admittedly more beer, Steve had come to terms with being kidnapped by pirates. Crying about it wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He was sat beside Wade once again, more comfortable and relaxed now that it had been established that the pirate wasn’t actively looking to hurt him in any way. Bruce, another pirate he’d been introduced to, was rummaging around his room whilst Steve had been told to list off what hurt.

“Bucky told me you have two broken ribs and that they’ve been taken care of. I’ll find something for your lip.” 

Overall, on top of broken ribs, Steve’s lip had been split; being knocked down by the Hydra had resulted in a stress fracture on his fibula; bruises littered throughout his body – which had been expected – ranging from purple, blue to black; arms scratched to all Hell; and his cheekbone grazed after hitting the ground. Considering everything, it was not a great week for Steve. The salve that Bruce had found eventually had stung like fire on his lip but it was better than leaving it to become infected. Steve was grateful. 

“How old are you?” Bruce asked, inspecting the bruise on his back with gentle hands. 

“Sixteen.” Steve didn’t know what year it was. He’d been born in 1918, and he didn’t have any memories of home – Brooklyn – past 1934. 

“Jesus.” Wade muttered, also eyeing the bruise that had been described to him as ‘darker than Loki’s imagination’. “You’re only a kid.”

“‘M’not a fucking kid.” 

“How long’ve you been here?”

“Dunno. Lost count. I remember getting sick again in 1934. What year is it-”

“1934? Holy fucking Hell.” Wade sputtered, Bruce also freezing in shock. “It’s 2013, kid. That means you’re like ninety-five, give or take.” Wade stared at Steve with wide eyes, expression caught between awe and disbelief. 

Steve stood up with a pained grimace, frowning and throwing the shirt back on. “Thanks.” He tried to smile at Bruce but instead looked somewhat malevolent without meaning to. 

With that, he left the room and tried to find his way to somewhere quiet, somewhere he could escape the fact that he’d wasted eighty years on this fucking island. His friends were all gone if not dead, Brooklyn would have most likely changed beyond his recognition, his ma... Steve suppressed the suddenly overwhelming urge to break down into tears but found himself soon distracted anyway, pushed forcefully through an unfamiliar doorway. He recognised the man from earlier; dark hair and eyes, a vicious smile curling his lip to reveal teeth Steve was honestly surprised weren’t shark-like, and rough hands that were gripping him at the arms, sending him falling to the floor with a hiss. 

The man clambered atop Steve, straddling his hips and grabbing his wrists. The added weight knocked the breath out of him before the panic could really set in.

~

“It’s more complicated than that. We don’t know whether or not he’s actually _him_.” 

“We can use him to find where the rest of the Lost are.” Loki insisted as Bucky tried to focus on fixing the compass in hand.

“Yes, I know.” Bucky rubbed his eyes, pulling his hand through his hair in frustration. “But I don’t really think-”

“We can’t find Steve.” Wade poked his head in through the gap in the doorway, interrupting Bucky.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! He just walked off before me and Bruce could follow him. We didn’t think he’d disappear.” Wade claimed, hands up in a gesture of ‘ _please don’t shoot me, I’m sorry_ ’.

He rolled his eyes, done with everyone’s bullshit. It was tempting to let Natasha take over as Captain for the rest of the week. “Go look for him then.”

“We’ve got everyone on the lookout. None of us can find them.” Bruce added from behind Wade.  
“‘Them’?”

“Brock’s gone as well.”

Bucky cursed, throwing down his compass and stalking past Wade with a ‘ _fucking goddamn it_ ’.


End file.
